


Eggs, Coffee, Bread, Butter

by LittleLostStar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Language Kink, M/M, Post-Series, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yuuri doesn't speak Russian yet, did i mention the fluff?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar
Summary: Yuuri has a small adventure at a grocery store in St. Petersburg and everything is just adorable.~"Yuuri, did you go grocery shopping?""Yes, why? ...What did I do?"Victor cocks his head, eyes crinkling, and just like that Yuuri realizes that he might not actually have the upper hand in this situation.“What were you trying to do?” he asks innocently, which just makes Yuuri even more furious.





	

**Author's Note:**

> That thing where you go to a grocery store and then have to rush home to write a thing. 
> 
> That's my life now.

It’s the second weekend of January when Yuuri finally leaves Victor’s apartment on his own.

It’s not that he’s been trapped there, exactly—quite the opposite, he has to admit. In fact, on the day Yuuri had arrived in St. Petersburg for good—exhausted after days of packing and hours of travel—Victor had unlocked the door and pushed it open for Yuuri to enter first, turning back to grab one of the larger suitcases. The first thing he had seen upon crossing into the foyer was a second set of keys, already affixed to their own hook by the door. It was the sweetest thing Yuuri had ever experienced in his life—until he walked further into the apartment and saw the ridiculous amounts of flower petals strewn around the bedroom and the spot for his silver medal next to all of Victor’s awards and the photographs of the two of them he’d nabbed from Instagram, already framed and placed on walls and coffee tables.

Victor had gone, by his own admission, a little bit overboard in his welcome celebrations.

Drinks were poured. Makeout sessions commenced. Yuuri passed out early. He had woken up in a huge king-sized bed next to a beatific sleeping Victor, bathed in early morning sunlight, and his heart had felt as though it might explode from joy.

And then Victor had woken up, and leaned over to kiss him, and _that_ was the greatest moment of Yuuri’s life for around ten seconds before his hands started roaming and kissing turned into groping which turned into the best sex they’d had so far. It had been the first time they’d been anywhere other than hotel rooms or Yuuri’s bedroom in Hasetsu, both of which had posed some awkward challenges for true carnal expression. But now that they were in Victor’s own apartment—in Victor and Yuuri’s _shared_ apartment—there were no such barriers. And that’s now Yuuri had learned that Victor had a tendency to mutter in rapid, breathy Russian whenever Yuuri went down on him, and also that he was a slight screamer when it came to orgasms. And it had been awesome. 

It’s been three weeks since then. Long enough for Victor to introduce Yuuri to the rest of the St. Petersburg skaters, both on the ice as colleagues and in a social capacity as future friends. Long enough that the weirdness has largely passed; Yuuri had never interacted with Georgi outside of events, for instance, and at first it was a little weird to see him knocking back vodka shots and _not_ be consumed with anxiety about competing against him. But now they’re all on the same trivia team at the neighbourhood bar (they’re called Five-Time Quiz Nikiforov, a name which is apparently much funnier in Russian); Yuuri can’t read or write Russian yet, but he knows his random facts, and everyone speaks the language of free drinks. 

Three weeks. Long enough for Yuuri to completely unpack his belongings, and slowly but surely transform the apartment into a place that seems like home. His books are intermingled with Victor’s on the shelves (organized by colour; Yuuri successfully argued that it was the only logical way to smoothly integrate books in three different languages, but the truth is that it’s the one thing from Pinterest that he’s always wanted to do and it’s  _delightfully_ whimsical). He has his own desk in the second bedroom, and the right side of the couch is now officially his spot (although Makkachin disputes this, mostly because in his doggy mind the entire couch belongs to him). Yuuri has broken a mug and vacuumed the apartment and started mentally planning a garden on the balcony when springtime comes. 

There are things he hasn’t done. He hasn’t signed up for language classes yet; Victor had scoffed at the idea and offered to be Yuuri’s teacher, but he can’t help but coo and purr every word flirtatiously, and that just results in sex against the wall of the office or on Victor’s desk. Yuuri also hasn’t really considered the reality of Victor being both his competitor and a coach; he’s been plenty tempted to get anxious about it, but being with Victor is just so much fun that he finds that it’s hard to be anxious about _anything_ , and isn’t that a goddamn miracle. 

And he hasn’t left the apartment on his own. Not truly. Yuuri has gone running with Makkachin, and he and Victor have left for different locations and met up later, but he’s rarely been home alone, and it’s just always worked out that whenever Victor is going somewhere, Yuuri is usually with him. He’s never gone out on his own without Victor knowing where he’s going or by his side.

So that’s tonight’s adventure. Victor is at dinner with some sponsors, and Yuuri thought he would be fine alone for the night, but two hours in and he’s starting to get antsy. He paces the main room until Makkachin barks excitedly, thinking that a walk is in order, but Yuuri doesn’t want to deal with a rambunctious wet dog tonight. After calming the poodle down with a quick game of tug-of-war, Yuuri wanders into the kitchen, opening random cupboards, and that’s when he realizes that they’re almost out of coffee.

A stupid idea blooms in his head, in which Yuuri prepares Victor a perfect meal of eggs over easy and coffee and toast, and brings it to him on a tray for breakfast in bed. The kind of surprise that people in love tend to do. Of course, there aren’t any eggs in the fridge, nor is there butter, so that’s two more things on the shopping list.

_All right. Off I go, then. This is the place where I live now; it’s my home, it’s my neighbourhood. I can go run an errand. This is a thing that people do._

Yuuri doesn’t really notice that he’s a little lightheaded until he’s outside in the blustery freezing rain. It doesn’t rain a lot in St. Petersburg, but tonight is just warm enough that snow can’t quite hold itself together. Which is a shame, because if there’s one thing Yuuri has learned recently, it’s that he overwhelmingly prefers snow; rain has a nasty tendency to soak through every damn thing he owns, and he doesn’t own rain boots—another thing he hasn’t done yet—so he can look forward to wet, cold toes tonight. Luckily the store is just around the corner, because the cold darkness is putting him in kind of a dark mood.

Yuuri’s never been to the place he has in mind, but he’s walked past it with Victor a lot, as it’s on the way to the skating rink. It’s a little grocery shop, one street over and half a block down; no big deal, no need to get lost. He thumbs the unfamiliar set of keys in his jacket pocket as he waits at the intersection; the street light overhead illuminates the rain, falling at a wonky angle and hitting his face like tiny pinpricks.

Even though it’s not very far, by the time Yuuri gets into the store he’s already soaked, and very miserable. His stomach has started to grumble; he didn’t even realize he was hungry, and now he’s about to enter a grocery store,  _so that’s just great_ . The bell above the door chimes as he shuffles in, and it doesn’t take more than two seconds for Yuuri to realize that this is a much smaller store than he realized. While the larger grocery chains tend to have international brands and recognizable products (and sometimes even English labeling, Hallelujah), he can tell right away that he will not have such luck in this place. The owner sits at the front counter, scowling; there’s no one else in the store, so Yuuri feels the old man’s eyes on his back as he tries to navigate through the impossibly narrow aisles. 

_Don’t knock anything over. Yuuri, seriously. Don’t do it. You can’t talk your way out of anything because you don’t know what to say, and you can’t call Victor and disturb his sponsorship meeting. You’re on your own. Just get some fucking eggs, put money on the counter, and leave._

He finds the deli counter at the very back of the store, totally abandoned; the eggs are in a cooler next to a counter which displays a few wheels of cheese and olives floating in oil, all of which look as if they’ve been there for months, at least. The fluorescent light directly above Yuuri’s head begins to buzz.

“Дитя!” the owner calls, and Yuuri flinches. He blinks, and realizes that he spaced out for at least a full minute, standing perfectly still in front of the eggs. _Fuck my whole life, now he thinks I’m a weirdo. Fuck fuck fuck okay what did I want? Eggs, coffee, bread, butter. Go go go and go._

Yuuri grabs a shabby carton of six eggs, and turns around too quickly; the corner of his sodden coat snags on a shelving unit, and he barely manages to grab and hold it steady. He sees the owner’s glare out of the corner of his eye; desperate to avoid an accusation of either theft or vandalism, Yuuri grabs one of whatever was on the shelf and throws it into the basket. It’s a can of something, covered in writing but no pictures.

He gives up on bread right away; there’s only one loaf left on the shelf, and it’s got a fine sheen of dust. Yuuri can feel the owner staring at him, and the lights seem to be getting brighter in a sickly green way, so he takes a rectangular box of what looks like crackers from the next shelf over and offers a silent and irrational apology to the lonely, sad little loaf. The drinks aisle is a little easier, but Yuuri feels increasingly overwhelmed; he sees a small container of grounds with a photo of a cup of coffee on the label, and he grabs two. The butter is in bricks, just like everywhere else—much easier. But as Yuuri heads towards the terrifying old man at the counter, his anxiety spikes to the point where he freezes in his tracks.

_Fuck fuck fuck Yuuri move god damn it he’s looking right at you_ . Yuuri throws a tiny smile at the old man, and then he turns ninety degrees and grabs whatever’s in front of him as casually as he can. Finally, with the fluorescent lights buzzing increasingly louder inside of his head, Yuuri approaches the counter and unloads his items. The old man begins to scan them, and Yuuri busies himself with pulling out his wallet and counting out money.

“Вы уверены, что хотите этого?” the old man asks, holding up the brick of butter—the last thing on the conveyor belt. Yuuri nods, trying to look as if he knows what’s happening; he must have given the correct answer, because the man puts the butter into a paper grocery bag. 

“пятьсот восемнадцать рублей.” 

_Um._

Yuuri looks from the man down to the rubles in his hand, and then back up. His hand begins to tremble, and he puts the cash on the counter and starts to fan through it in desperation.

The man clears his throat, a sign which transcends language barriers:  _give me the goddamn money, you asshole._

Fuck it. Yuuri hands over the credit card Victor gave him; the owner swipes it, his scowl never ceasing, and nearly throws the card back at Yuuri when the transaction clears.

It’s not until Yuuri gets outside with his bag that he realizes that he left the rubles on the counter. He pauses for a second, contemplating whether to go back, when a gigantic SUV speeds by and hits a puddle, splashing him from head to toe.

_This is the last time I try to do something nice for Victor Nikiforov_ , Yuuri vows as he traipses back home, trying to keep the groceries from falling out of the sodden bag.

_Okay, that’s a lie. This is the last time I try to go grocery shopping for him._

Also a lie.

_This is the last time I leave the apartment on my own._

Not realistic.

_This is the last time I go back to that particular grocery store._

That’s a promise he can keep.

~

Two hours later, and Yuuri has showered and eaten some leftovers (Victor claims he can’t cook, but he makes a ridiculously good slow cooker pot roast). He’s sprawled on the couch with Makkachin, nodding off into his novel, when he hears Victor’s key in the door and the sound of boots stomping out water on the foyer mat.

“Hey, Victor,” he calls. “How was the dinner?”

His fiance appears, still in his coat, and leans down to plant a kiss on Yuuri’s lips and another on Makkachin’s head. “Not bad,” he replies. “Sponsor was nice, but I’m maybe holding out for something better. Haven’t decided yet.”

Yuuri yawns. “Don’t be too picky,” he warns. Victor winks.

“I think I’ve had plenty of luck in being picky so far.” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “You dork.”

“You’re the one who’s marrying me someday,” Victor sing-songs, walking back to the foyer to hang up his coat. Yuuri tries to find his place in his novel, which has slipped under one of Makkachin’s paws and requires careful removal. As he begins to read again, he can hear Victor in the kitchen, and Yuuri smiles to himself, pleased that his good work will soon be discovered. 

Except Victor suddenly cracks up laughing.

“Yuuri!”

“... yeah?”

Victor pops his head around the corner. “Did you go grocery shopping?”

“Y-yes? Yes.”

Yuuri knows Victor’s face very well. He’s studied it, first as a fan and admirer, then as a student, and finally as a romantic partner. So he sees the microsecond in which Victor’s face twitches, before he smiles brightly and disappears back around the corner. “Cool!” he calls.

_Oh, hell no_ . Yuuri disentangles himself from Makkachin and scrambles over towards the kitchen, arriving to find Victor looking very deliberately through the fridge. He pouts.

“What did I do wrong?”

Victor turns, and there it is again—that split second of true emotion, followed by a carefully arranged smile. “Nothing, Yuuri. Did you eat dinner?”

Yuuri charges forward, arms crossed defiantly, and steps right into Victor’s personal space. “Victor. What did I do?”

The smug motherfucker is caught, and his expression softens into—not disappointment. No, even more horrifying:  _amusement._ Victor cocks his head, eyes crinkling, and just like that Yuuri realizes that he might not actually have the upper hand in this situation.

“What were you trying to do?” he asks innocently, which just makes Yuuri even more furious.

“I wanted to get eggs and bread and coffee. We were out. I thought I could—I wanted to...contribute. I wanted to do this on my own so I don’t depend on you all the time,” Yuuri admits, taking a very small step back. “I... sort of got overwhelmed when I was at the store, though.”

“Didn’t realize you were hungry, did you?” Victor asks gently, and in that moment Yuuri falls in love with him all over again, because who else would possibly know that? _No one._

He realizes he’s blushing. “No. I spaced out and left a bunch of money on the counter, and I think I also used your credit card?”

“That’s fine. I’ll just call the bank and report an extra cute case of identity theft,” Victor teases. Yuuri responds by poking him in the ribs like a brat, but it’s only half-hearted, and Victor grabs his hand before he can pull away and gently kisses Yuuri’s ring.

_Don’t melt don’t melt don’t melt god damn it_ . “So what’s the damage?”

Victor glances at the fridge. “Do you really want to know?”

Yuuri folds his arms again. “Yes.”

Victor turns around and opens the cupboard. “Well...these are instant coffee crystals. Enough for,” he does some mental math, “like ninety cups?”

“What?!”

“Yeah. It’s compact stuff. You also bought...a can of pickled oysters, some gluten free rice grain flatbreads that are about a month out of date, and, uh, a box of laxative tea.”

Yuuri buries his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

Victor giggles. “Also, why did you put lard in the fridge?”

“Is that not butter? God _damn_ it, Russia!” Yuuri moans. He feels Victor’s cool fingers wrap around his hands and gently pry them away from his face, and he forces himself to confront his fiance.

“That was very sweet,” Victor says, leaning his forehead against Yuuri’s. “How about tomorrow we go grocery shopping for real? I found an Asian market that looks pretty authentic and I was thinking we could go and you could teach me how to make katsudon.”

Yuuri leans in and kisses him.

“So is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes. I’d love to. I don’t know if I can make it as good as my mom does, though.”

Victor’s eyes twinkle. “I’m entirely sure it’ll be delicious.” He looks over at the sad little pile of groceries, and then back at Yuuri. “In the meantime, maybe I could teach you how to read all the words on these items, so you can recognize them.”

Yuuri cocks one eyebrow. “Is that really what you want to do, Victor?” But he’s already being led down the hall towards the bedroom.

“No,” Victor admits, pulling Yuuri into his arms, “but it was worth a shot. Guess I’ll have to figure out another way to seduce you.”

As he closes the bedroom door, Yuuri chuckles. “Yes. However on Earth will you manage that?”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos keep your friendly neighbourhood fanfic authors alive and joyful! 
> 
> I'm working on a longer piece, [Setting Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9141265/chapters/20769238), so if you like what you read here, feel free to check that out!
> 
> I'm also on Tumblr and can be found [here](http://little-lost-star-1.tumblr.com/). Please come by, drop an ask or say hello. You all seem like cool people.


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